Pay Her A Visit
by Millennium Biscuit
Summary: (Thor x Jane Foster) Loki makes good his word and Thor is left to deal with the aftermath, which may not be quite what it seems.


**Fandom:** Marvel  
**Pairing:** ThorxJane + Loki  
**Summary:** Loki makes good his word and Thor is left to deal with the aftermath, which may not be quite what it seems.  
**Rating:** M » implications of torture, sex and a rather gruesome end.

**A/N:** I really, really REALLY apologise in advance.

* * *

_Dearest brother,_

_By the time you receive this message I shall be nowhere to be found. Nonetheless it is my utmost pleasure to inform you that I have, true to my word, paid the Lady Jane Foster a most fulfilling visit._

_Joyfully,_

_Loki of Asgard_

* * *

Hair in tangles, she is crying on the steps of her apartment block when Thor gets there, offering little resistance when he gathers her up into his arms and carries her inside, whispering soothing words against her forehead. She feels heavier than the last time he held her; as if the weight of the world is upon her back, crushing her tiny, fragile body. He knows, looking down at her watery eyes, that he would do anything to lift it off for her.

"What happened?" he asks once he has set her gently on the sofa.

She shakes her head, shoulders trembling. "I don't want to talk about it…"

Resting a great hand on her neck, he kneels down before her. "Loki, where is he?"

Again, she shakes her head, breath hitching with sobs. "I can't—I—I just… please, Thor, please, don't make me talk about it…"

He holds her in his lap until she stops crying and just looks up at him weakly, like a hurt, helpless creature; a calf saved from slaughter. It elicits from him a sort of pity that is almost satisfying. This is what he is born and driven to do.

"I will protect you, Lady Jane. I swear it." He covers her hand with his own. "And I _will_avenge the wrong my brother has done you."

A small smile touches her lips for the first time since Thor has seen her, but it flickers away again quick as blinking.

* * *

Jane falls asleep on the couch, so Thor covers her with his cloak and stays beside her, her clammy hand holding his tight. As she squirms with fitful dreams, the god's gaze flickers constantly between her sleeping face and the door, through which it seems any horror might come.

* * *

He sleeps, eventually, and when he wakes the smells and sounds of cooking are emanating from the kitchen. Jane looks so small and so worn at the stove that he can't help but move in close again, wrapping his arms protectively around her waist and leaning his face into her hair. She needs to wash it. He doesn't care.

"Can you set the table?" she asks, her voice more hoarse than what he is used to. He only nods and does as he's told, finding himself with precious little to say for once in his life. They eat toast accompanied by slices of a Midgardian meat Thor is not familiar with (Jane says it is veal) and he watches her all the while, her hand in his over the table. She smiles thinly when she catches him staring. It breaks his heart.

* * *

The next few days are quiet. Thor does not know how to treat a traumatised woman, nor does Jane seem to be forthcoming with information about whatever befell her. Thor has tried to search the apartment for clues, but finds that leaving Jane for long only has her trailing about after him looking listless. She is a shell of the woman who had hit Thor with her metal chariot. Twice, he recalls, somewhat fondly.

* * *

It is not long before he notices something missing. "Where are Erik Selvig and Lady Darcy?"

Jane's head turns slowly toward him. Using her miniature-theatre-machine she has been watching a Midgardian drama known as the "infomercials" for several hours. "What?"

"Did they not come to your aid? When my brother—" The hurt that displays itself on her face silences Thor immediately. No mean feat.

"No," she says eventually, eyes in her lap. "I was alone."

Her lips tremble; pre-emptively, Thor shifts closer and lifts her into his lap, cradling her head against his shoulder. "Lady Jane—"

"Where were you?" she sobs against his neck. "Why didn't you come for me? I was all alone. I was always, always—"

Thor holds her tighter, one hand rubbing slowly up and down her shivering back. She's clinging so tight that he can feel her nails pinching his skin through his borrowed shirt.

"Please, Thor, please, don't leave me again. Don't ever leave me again…"

"Of course not, Lady Jane." He holds her like something precious about to break, cracking at the seams; something fragile, but something he cannot bear to let go of. "Never."

* * *

She takes him to bed the same night and he finds himself surprised—pleasantly, he thinks?—at her boldness. She's rougher than he would have thought and yet oddly vulnerable, with a wary look in her eye as if she might yet change her mind. Strangely, though, the fact that he is a god does not seem to intimidate her even once they're out of their clothes and pressed up against one another, kissing languidly, hands wandering.

It's only now that Thor begins to see physical evidence of his brother's presence. There is a long, thin scar along her abdomen, another down one of her inner thighs, both raised pink against her creamy skin. Jane's brow creases as he runs a finger down the length of each then bows his head to kiss them.

She turns her face away, then grips his hair in one hand to guide his head between her legs and hold him there. He responds in kind, equally undaunted as she hooks her legs around his shoulders and rocks her hips toward his clumsy tongue. Minutes pass with no result; she pushes him away by the shoulders.

"I am so—"

"Get on your back."

"What?"

Women aren't meant to be this forward. He can't bring himself to complain, though, particularly when he does as he's told and she grinds down against him with her whole body, kissing him with feverish heat and intensity. Then she's clinging again, shaking again, crying again and he has to quiet her, stroking her hair out of her face, kissing the tears from her cheeks.

"I'm so _sorry_, Thor—"

"It isn't your fault," he says, trying very hard to be sensitive with a very beautiful woman straddling his hips.

"No, it _is_—"

"I refuse to believe—"

"You don't understand—it is, it _is_!"

"I love you," he tells her simply, having never really had a filter between his thoughts and his mouth, "and whatever it is—whatever you think you have done to deserve this cruel fate, I will not rest until you know that none of it was your doing. Not for a moment, Jane."

There's a pause in which all he can do is look at her and watch her look back, flushed, breathless, _beautiful_, and with this terrible, aching hurt that he's sure he's seen somewhere before.

She doesn't speak any more, just sits up and pushes down on him too quickly, a hand on his chest coaxing him to lie flat as she rides him roughly, rather too skilfully. Where it's all coming from, he doesn't know—doesn't really need to. All he knows is that he loves her, and there is nothing in all the realms that will _stop_ him from loving her. Not even Loki.

Especially not Loki.

"I love you, too," she confesses breathlessly afterwards. He cuddles her close again, lets her kiss him softly, and is still.

* * *

She feels much better in the morning.

Thor doesn't need to be woken up, she decides, never does. He'll get up when he feels like it and she'll be there in the kitchen, as always. Maybe stew today, she thinks, mentally reviewing her cookbooks, or pie. So many options; Thor, too, seems impressed by the diversity of Midgardian cuisine.

The deep freeze is down in the garage and, mercifully, Thor has never thought to fetch anything for her from it. She likes the cooking to be her own. It's nicer when he doesn't interfere but stands close behind her with his arms wrapped lovingly around her waist, at her beck and call.

Still, maybe one day she'll ask him to come down to the freezer with her. It might be a bit of an eye-opener for him; he still has no idea, after all, the lengths she has gone to simply to see him again.

The freezer is packed with various cuts of meat (home-kill) in neat plastic bags, arranged artfully around Jane Foster's severed head.

"Do excuse me for being such poor conversation this morning," says the woman softly, removing a new bag from the ice. "My brother needs his breakfast."


End file.
